After returning to Kottbus from the Christmas vacation I plunged
headlong into work, and as I exerted all my powers I made rapid
progress.
Thus January passed away, and I was so industrious that I often studied
until long after midnight. I had not even gone to the theatre, though
I had heard that the Von Hoxar Company was unusually good. The leading
lady, especially, was described as a miracle of beauty and remarkably
talented. This excited my curiosity, and when a school-mate who had made
the stage manager’s acquaintance told us that he would be glad to have
us appear at the next performance of The Robbers, I of course promised
to be present.
We went through our parts admirably, and no one in the crowded house
suspected the identity of the chorus of robbers who sang with so much
freshness and vivacity.
I was deeply interested in what was passing on the stage, and, concealed
at the wings, I witnessed the greater part of the play.
Rarely has so charming an Amalie adorned the boards as the
eighteen-year-old actress, who, an actor’s child, had already been
several years on the stage.
The consequence of this visit to the theatre was that, instead of
studying historical dates, as I had intended, I took out Panthea and
Abradatus, and on that night and every succeeding one, as soon as I had
finished my work for the manager, I added new five-foot iambics to the
tragedy, whose material I drew from Xenophon.
Whenever the company played I went to the theatre, where I saw the
charming Clara in comedy parts, and found that all the praises I
had heard of her fell short of the truth. Yet I did not seek her
acquaintance. The examination was close at hand, and it scarcely entered
my mind to approach the actress. But the Fates had undertaken to act as
mediators and make me the hero of a romance which ended so speedily, and
in a manner which, though disagreeable, was so far from tragical, that
if I desired to weave the story of my own life into a novel I should be
ashamed to use the extensive apparatus employed by Destiny.
Rather more than a week had passed since the last performance of The
Robbers, when one day, late in the afternoon, the streets were filled
with uproar. A fire had broken out, and as soon as Professor Braune’s
lesson was over I joined the human flood. The boiler in the Kubisch
cloth factory had burst, a part of the huge building near it was in
flames, and a large portion of the walls had fallen.
When, with several school-mates, I reached the scene of the disaster,
the fire had already been mastered, but many hands were striving to
remove the rubbish and save the workmen buried underneath. I eagerly
lent my aid.
Meanwhile it had grown dark, and we were obliged to work by the light of
lanterns. Several men, fortunately all living, had been brought out, and
we thought that the task of rescue was completed, when the rumour spread
that some girls employed in one of the lower rooms were still missing.
It was necessary to enter, but the smoke and dust which filled the air
seemed to preclude this, and, besides, a high wall above the cleared
space in the building threatened to fall. An architect who had directed
with great skill the removal of the debris was standing close beside me
and gave orders to tear down the wall, whose fall would cost more lives.
Just at that moment I distinctly heard an inexpressibly mournful cry
of pain. A narrow shouldered, sickly-looking man, who spite of his very
plain clothing, seemed to belong to the better classes, heard it too,
and the word “Horrible!” in tones of the warmest sympathy escaped his
lips. Then he bent over the black smoking space, and I did the same.
The cry was repeated still louder than before, my neighbour and I looked
at each other, and I heard him whisper, “Shall we?”
In an instant I had flung off my coat, put my handkerchief over my
mouth, and let myself down into the smoking pit, where I pressed forward
through a stifling mixture of lime and particles of sand.
The groans and cries of the wounded guided me and my companion, who had
instantly followed, and at last two female figures appeared amid the
smoke and dust on which the lanterns, held above, cast flickering rays
of light.
One was lying prostrate, the other, kneeling, leaned against the wall.
We seized the first one, and staggered towards the spot where the
lanterns glimmered, and loud shouts greeted us.
Our example had induced others to leap down too.
As soon as we were released from our burden we returned for the second
victim. My companion now carried a lantern. The woman was no longer
kneeling, but lay face downward several paces nearer to the narrow
passage choked with stones and lime dust which separated her from
us. She had fainted while trying to follow. I seized her feet, and we
staggered on, but ere we could leave the passage which led into the
larger room I heard a loud rattling and thundering above, and the next
instant something struck my head and everything reeled around me. Yet I
did not drop the blue yarn stockings, but tottered on with them into the
large open space, where I fell on my knees.
Still I must have retained my consciousness, for loud shouts and
cries reached my ears. Then came a moment with which few in life can
compare--the one when I again inhaled draughts of the pure air of
heaven.
I now felt that my hair was stained with blood, which had flowed from a
wound in my head, but I had no time to think of it, for people crowded
around me saying all sorts of pleasant things. The architect, Winzer,
was most cordial of all. His words, “I approve of such foolhardiness,
Herr Ebers,” echoed in my ears long afterwards.
A beam had fallen on my head, but my thick hair had broken the force of
the blow, and the wound in a few days began to heal.
My companion in peril was at my side, and as my blood-stained face
looked as if my injuries were serious he invited me to his house,
which was close by the scene of the accident. On the way we introduced
ourselves to each other. His name was Hering, and he was the prompter
at the theatre. When the doctor who had been sent to me had finished his
task of sewing up the wound and left us, an elderly woman entered, whose
rank in life was somewhat difficult to determine. She wore gay flowers
in her bonnet, and a cloak made of silk and velvet, but her yellow face
was scarcely that of a “lady.” She came to get a part for her daughter;
it was one of the prompter’s duties to copy the parts for the various
actors.
But who was this daughter?
Fraulein Clara, the fair Amalie of The Robbers, the lovely leading lady
of the theatre.
My daughter has an autograph of Andersen containing the words, “Life is
the fairest fairy tale.”
Ay, our lives are often like fairy tales.
The Scheherezade “Fate” had found the bridge to lead the student to
the actress, and the means employed were of no less magnitude than
a conflagration, the rescue of a life, and a wound, as well as the
somewhat improbable combined action of a student and a prompter. True,
more simple methods would scarcely have brought the youth with the
examination in his head and a pretty girl in his heart to seek the
acquaintanceship of the fair actress.
Fate urged me swiftly on; for Clara’s mother was an enthusiastic woman,
who in her youth had herself been an ornament of the stage, and I can
still hear her exclamation, “My dear young sir, every German girl ought
to kiss that wound!”
I can see her indignantly forbid the prompter to tie his gay
handkerchief over the injury and draw a clean one from her own velvet
bag to bind my forehead. Boltze and my school-mates greeted me very
warmly. Director Tzschirner said something very similar to Herr Winzer’s
remark.
And so matters would have remained, and in a few weeks, after passing
the examination, I should have returned to my happy mother, had not a
perverse Fate willed otherwise.
This time a bit of linen was the instrument used to lead me into the
path allotted, for when the wound healed and the handkerchief which
Clara’s mother had tied round it came back from the wash, I was
uncertain whether to return it in person or send it by a messenger with
a few words of thanks. I determined on the latter course; but when, that
same evening, I saw Clara looking so pretty as the youthful Richelieu,
I cast aside my first resolve, and the next day at dusk went to call on
the mother of the charming actress. I should scarcely have ventured
to do so in broad daylight, for Herr Ebeling, our zealous religious
instructor, lived directly opposite.
The danger, however, merely gave the venture an added zest and, ere
I was aware of it I was standing in the large and pretty sitting-room
occupied by the mother and daughter.
It was a disappointment not to meet the latter, yet I felt a certain
sense of relief. Fate intended to let me escape the storm uninjured,
for my heart had been by no means calm since I mounted the narrow stairs
leading to the apartments of the fair actress. But just as I was taking
leave the pavement echoed with the noise of hoofs and the rattle of
wheels. Prince Puckler’s coupe stopped in front of the house and the
young girl descended the steps.
She entered the room laughing merrily, but when she saw me she became
graver, and looked at her mother in surprise.
A brief explanation, the cry, “Oh, you are the man who was hurt!” and
then the proof that the room did not owe its neat appearance to her, for
her cloak flew one way, her hat another, and her gloves a third. After
this disrobing she stood before me in the costume of the youthful
Richelieu, so bewitchingly charming, so gay and bright, that I could not
restrain my delight.
She had come from old Prince Puckler, who, as he never visited the
theatre in the city, wished to see her in the costume whose beauty had
been so much praised. The vigorous, gay old gentleman had charmed her,
and she declared that she liked him far better than any of the young
men. But as she knew little of his former life and works, I told her of
his foolish pranks and chivalrous deeds.
It seemed as if her presence increased my powers of description, and
when I at last took leave she exclaimed: “You’ll come again, won’t you?
After one has finished one’s part, it’s the best time to talk.”
Did I wait to be asked a second time? Oh, no! Even had I not been the
“foolhardy Ebers,” I should have accepted her invitation. The very next
evening I was in the pleasant sitting-room, and whenever I could
slip away after supper I went to the girl, whom I loved more and more
ardently. Sometimes I repeated poems of my own, sometimes she recited
and acted passages from her best parts, amid continual jesting and
laughter. My visits seemed like so many delightful festivals, and
Clara’s mother took care that they were not so long as to weary her
treasure. She often fell asleep while we were reading and talking,
but usually she sent me away before midnight with “There’s another day
coming to-morrow.” Long before my first visit to the young actress I had
arranged a way of getting into the house at any time, and Dr. Boltze
had no suspicion of my expeditions, since on my return I strove the more
zealously to fulfil all my school duties.
This sounds scarcely credible, yet it is strictly true, for from a child
up to the present time I have always succeeded, spite of interruptions
of every kind, in devoting myself to the occupation in which I was
engaged. Loud noises in an adjoining room, or even tolerably severe
physical pain, will not prevent my working on as soon as the subject
so masters me as to throw the external world and my own body into the
background. Only when the suffering becomes very intense, the whole
being must of necessity yield to it.
During the hours of the night which followed these evening visits
I often succeeded in working earnestly for two or three hours in
preparation for the examination. During my recitations, however,
weariness asserted itself, and even more strongly the new feeling which
had obtained complete mastery over me. Here I could not shake off the
delightful memories of these evenings because I did not strive to battle
with them.
I am not without talent for drawing, and even at that time it was an
easy matter to reproduce anything which had caught my eye, not only
distinctly, but sometimes attractively and with a certain degree of
fidelity to nature. So my note-book was filled with figures which amazed
me when I saw them afterwards, for my excited imagination had filled
page after page with a perfect Witch’s Sabbath of compositions, in which
the oddest scrolls and throngs of genii blended with flowers, buds,
and all sorts of emblems of love twined around initial letters or
the picture of the person who had captured my heart at a time so
inopportune.
I owe the suggestion of some verses which were written at that time
to the memory of a dream. I was on the back of a swan, which bore me
through the air, and on another swan flying at my side sat Clara. Our
hands were clasped. It was delightful until I bent to kiss her; then
the swan I rode melted into mist, and I plunged headlong down, falling,
falling, until I woke.
I had this dream on the Friday before the beginning of the week in which
the first examination was to take place; and it is worthy of mention,
for it was fulfilled.
True, I needed no prophetic vision to inform me that this time of
happiness was drawing to a close. I had long known that the company was
to remove from Kottbus to Guben, but I hoped that the separation would
be followed by a speedy meeting.
It was certainly fortunate that she was going, yet the parting was hard
to bear; for the evening hours I had spent with her in innocent mirth
and the interchange of all that was best in our hearts and minds were
filled with exquisite enjoyment. The fact that our intercourse was in a
certain sense forbidden fruit merely doubled its charm.
How cautiously I had glided along in the shadows of the houses, how
anxiously I had watched the light in the minister’s study opposite, when
I went home!
True, he would have seen nothing wrong or even unseemly, save perhaps
the kiss which Clara gave me the last time she lighted me down stairs,
yet that would have been enough to shut me out of the examination. Ah!
yes, it was fortunate that she was going.
March had come, the sun shone brightly, the air was as warm as in May,
and I had carried the mother and daughter some violets which I had
gathered myself. Suddenly I thought how delightful it would be to drive
with Clara in an open carriage through the spring beauty of the country.
The next day was Sunday. If I went with them and spent the night in
Guben I could reach home in time the next day. I need only tell Dr.
Boltze I was going to Komptendorf, and order the carriage, to transform
the dear girl’s departure into a holiday.
Again Fate interfered with the course of this story; for on my way to
school that sunny Saturday morning I met Clara’s mother, and at sight
of her the wish merged into a resolve. I followed her into the shop she
entered and explained my plan. She thought it would be delightful, and
promised to wait for me at a certain place outside of the city.
The plan was carried out. I found them at the appointed spot, my darling
as fresh as a rose. If love and joy had any substantial weight, the
horses would have found it a hard matter to drag the vehicle swiftly on.
But at the first toll-house, while the toll-keeper was changing some
money, I experienced the envy of the gods which hitherto I had known
only in Schiller’s ballad. A pedestrian passed--the teacher whom I had
offended by playing all sorts of pranks during his French lesson. Not
one of the others disliked me.
He spoke to me, but I pretended not to understand, hastily took the
change from the toll-keeper, and, raising my hat, shouted, “Drive on!”
This highly virtuous gentleman scorned the young actress, and as, on
account of my companions, he had not returned my greeting, Clara flashed
into comical wrath, which stifled in its germ my thought of leaving the
carriage and going on foot to Komptendorf, where Dr. Boltze believed me
to be.
Clara rewarded my courageous persistence by special gaiety, and when we
had reached Guben, taken supper with some other members of the company,
and spent the evening in merriment, danger and all the ills which the
future might bring were forgotten.
The next morning I breakfasted with Clara and her mother, and in bidding
them good-bye added “Till we meet again,” for the way to Berlin was
through Guben, where the railroad began.
The carriage which had brought us there took me back to Kottbus. Several
members of the company entered it and went part of the way, returning on
foot. When they left me twilight was gathering, but the happiness I had
just enjoyed shone radiantly around me, and I lived over for the second
time all the delights I had experienced.
But the nearer I approached Kottbus the more frequently arose the
fear that the French teacher might make our meeting the cause of
an accusation. He had already complained of me for very trivial
delinquencies and would hardly let this pass. And yet he might.
Was it a crime to drive with a young girl of stainless reputation under
her mother’s oversight? No. I had done nothing wrong, except to say that
I was going to Komptendorf--and that offence concerned only Dr. Boltze,
to whom I had made the false statement.
At last I fell asleep, until the wheels rattled on the pavement of the
city streets. Was my dream concerning the swan to be fulfilled?
I entered the house early. Dr. Boltze was waiting for me, and his wife’s
troubled face betrayed what had happened even more plainly than her
husband’s frown.
The French teacher had instantly informed my tutor where and with whom
he had met me, and urged him to ascertain whether I had really gone to
Komptendorf. Then he went to Clara’s former residence, questioned the
landlady and her servant, and finally interrogated the livery-stable
keeper.
The mass of evidence thus gathered proved that I had paid the actress
numerous visits, and always at dusk. My dream seemed fulfilled, but
after I had told Dr. Boltze and his wife the whole truth a quiet talk
followed. The former did not give up the cause as lost, though he did
not spare reproaches, while his wife’s wrath was directed against the
informer rather than the offence committed by her favourite.
After a restless night I went to Professor Tzschirner and told him
everything, without palliation or concealment. He censured my frivolity
and lack of consideration for my position in life, but every word,
every feature of his expressive face showed that he grieved for what had
happened, and would have gladly punished it leniently. In after years
he told me so. Promising to make every effort to save me from exclusion
from the examination in the conference which he was to call at the close
of the afternoon session, he dismissed me--and he kept his word.
I know this, for I succeeded in hearing the discussion. The porter of
the gymnasium was the father of the boy whom my friend Lebenstein and I
kept to clean our boots, etc. He was a conscientious, incorruptible
man, but the peculiar circumstances of the case led him to yield to my
entreaties and admit me to a room next to the one where the conference
was held. I am grateful to him still, for it is due to this kindness
that I can think without resentment of those whose severity robbed me of
six months of my life.
This conference taught me how warm a friend I possessed in Professor
Tzschirner, and showed that Professor Braune was kindly disposed.
I remember how my heart overflowed with gratitude when Professor
Tzschirner sketched my character, extolled my rescue of life at the
Kubisch factory, and eloquently urged them to remember their own youth
and judge what had happened impartially. I should have belied my nature
had I not availed myself of the chain of circumstances which brought
me into association with the actress to make the acquaintance of so
charming a creature.
To my joyful surprise Herr Ebeling agreed with him, and spoke so
pleasantly of me and of Clara, concerning whom he had inquired, that I
began to hope he was on my side.
Unfortunately, the end of his speech destroyed all the prospects held
out in the beginning.
Space forbids further description of the discussion. The majority, spite
of the passionate hostility of the informer, voted not to expel me, but
to exclude me from the examination this time, and advise me to leave the
school. If, however, I preferred to remain, I should be permitted to do
so.
At the close of the session I was standing in the square in front of the
school when Professor Tzschirner approached, and I asked his permission
to leave school that very day. A smile of satisfaction flitted over his
manly, intellectual face, and he granted my request at once.
So my Kottbus school-days ended, and, unfortunately, in a way unlike
what I had hoped. When I said farewell to Professor Tzschirner and his
wife I could not restrain my tears. His eyes, too, were dim, and he
repeated to me what I had already heard him say in the conference, and
wrote the same thing to my mother in a letter explaining my departure
from the school. The report which he sent with it contains not a single
word to indicate a compulsory withdrawal or the advice to leave it.
When I had stopped at Guben and said goodbye to Clara my dream was
literally fulfilled. Our delightful intercourse had come to a sudden
end. Fortunately, I was the only sufferer, for to my great joy I heard
a few months after that she had made a successful debut at the Dresden
court theatre.
I was, of course, less joyfully received in Berlin than usual, but the
letters from Professor Tzschirner and Frau Boltze put what had occurred
in the right light to my mother--nay, when she saw how I grieved over
my separation from the young girl whose charms still filled my heart and
mind, her displeasure was transformed into compassion. She also saw
how difficult it was for me to meet the friends and guardian who had
expected me to return as a graduate, and drew her darling, whom for the
first time she called her “poor boy,” still closer to her heart.
Then we consulted about the future, and it was decided that I should
graduate from the gymnasium of beautiful Quedlinburg. Professor
Schmidt’s house was warmly recommended, and was chosen for my home.
I set out for my new abode full of the best resolutions. But at
Magdeburg I saw in a show window a particularly tasteful bonnet trimmed
with lilies of the valley and moss-rose buds. The sight brought Clara’s
face framed in it vividly be fore my eyes, and drew me into the shop. It
was a Paris pattern-hat and very expensive, but I spent the larger part
of my pocket-money in purchasing it and ordered it to be sent to the
girl whose image still filled my whole soul. Hitherto I had given her
nothing except a small locket and a great many flowers.